The Praise of My Sire
by Tairourou
Summary: The jig is up: the Death Eaters have been imprisoned, and Draco Malfoy is avoided like the plague. In an attempt to set things straight, Draco writes a letter to the imprisoned Lucius. It seems the "slimy prat" is a little deeper than expected.


"Few sons attain the praise of their great sires and most their sires disgrace."  
-Homer, The Odyssey

            A quill scratched furiously at a long piece of ancient-looking parchment that curled its way grandly to brush against the stone floor.  A head, neatly covered in white-blonde, immaculately combed hair, hovered only inches above the paper's yellowy surface, and the body of a slender fifth year was hunched around the paper in a position that most definitely couldn't be comfortable.

            Draco Malfoy was sitting not in the high-backed green velvet chair that was fiercely claimed as his in the common room, but alone on his Hogwarts bed, bent like a hunchback over a blank piece of ornate parchment. Draco reached his arm to the page to scroll the only writing on the paper's surface.

            _Father,_

No sooner had he written the first sentence than he picked up his wand, muttered a frustrated spell, and the words vanished from the page.

Somehow, he just couldn't seem to get it started.

            _I doubt this letter will reach you, due to your unfortunate—_

            Unfortunate? Draco thought as he charmed away the sentence.  No, that wasn't the word. How did one put delicately the fact that one's Father was despised by the public and banished to Azkaban?

            _I doubt this letter will reach you; Azkaban probably doesn't allow them—_

Another wave of his wand and the words were gone.  Now, that was just stupid, and his Father would most certainly think so. After all, the dementors had rebelled, hadn't they? His Father was probably having a grand time, just…just getting things in order before he waltzed right back out of the Wizard Prison. Why wouldn't they allow him to have whatever he wanted? After all, his Father was very close with the Dark…

            Draco's stomach churned and his hands clenched, white knuckles quivering, around the decorated edges of the parchment. His Father was a Death Eater. Well, of course he was. Draco had known that all along, it had been widely accepted throughout their family. But…but…Things were different now. Even as he swept down the hallways, nose in the air, flanked on either side by the worshipful Crabbe and Goyle, he couldn't ignore the stares.

            They were enough to drive even a Slytherin mad. Those wide-eyed stares of horror, as people watched him over the tops of their Daily Prophets, accompanied by the hissing whispers that followed him like trailing ghosts down every corridor.

            That's him. That's the Death Eater's son. I hear his chum's Dads are Death Eaters too... They're all in Azkaban now. Wonder if he's a Death Eater too?

            Draco had always gotten attention; he was a Malfoy. He was to be respected, he was an aristocrat, pure-blooded and noble and…

            And a Death Eater. A horrible, murderous, You-Know-Who following Death Eater. Draco's hands were shaking so badly now he could hardly hold the quill. This wasn't the kind of attention he wanted; this wasn't attention at all. This was pure humiliation. He felt as if he and Crabbe and Goyle were all part of a freak show that had been dropped at Hogwarts for the student's morbid entertainment. And, always walking in the center, always feeling the attention he had worked so hard to focus on himself above all, he was the most monstrous freak of all.

            With a heavy sigh, trembling hands again tried to dash off a decent sentence. His quill pressed the parchment so hard that a less expensive page would most certainly have torn.

            _I've decided to write this letter to you despite my concern that it may not ever reach you._

That would have to be good enough. Chewing mercilessly on his bottom lip, Draco moved to write another sentence. 

            _I have heard about your misfortunate—_

            That didn't sound right. Idiot. He was an idiot, he couldn't write a letter to his own Father…He couldn't write a decent letter to anyone, he hadn't the wit and the eloquence to use words as effortlessly as Lucius. He glanced at the elegant parchment, and wondered suddenly what he was thinking. He'd selected the longest piece of parchment he owned.

            They never talked. That was something the Malfoy family simply did not do. And if ever for some bizarre reason they _did_, it was nothing more than unrelenting criticism of muggle-borns, mudbloods, and those who simply didn't have the class they so effortlessly exuded. It was never anything as ridiculous or pointless as, say, emotions…

            So, why, then, had he gotten this notion? While everyone else was outside enjoying the last few days of term in the sunshine, Draco was up in the deserted bedroom, sitting alone on his bed and trying to write some stupid letter. It had helped a little while to speak grandly of all the things he was going to do to Potter in revenge, but that salve had worn off.

            Another twinge in his stomach rose up at the mention of Granger's name. He wasn't sure why, but he was brought back to that day in Borgin and Bukes, and back to his Father's words regarding Granger:

            "I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam," he could clearly hear his Father's smooth, cold voice in his head, and felt his face again grow hot in shame just at the memory. The steely, disgusted look in his father's perfectly blue eyes, the ghost of a mocking sneer on Lucius's thin lips…That face, that voice, was like a knife in Draco's pride and his heart.

            For some reason, he felt compelled to write this. Perhaps it was because all Draco could think about was how easy it would be for his Father to turn up dead at any moment. An involuntary shudder coursed through him at the thought; even if they weren't going to be named the Father and son of the year, he still didn't want to see him dead.

            Besides. It wasn't as if Lucius was a bad Father. Their relationship—or lack thereof—was not his fault, it was Draco's. Draco was the one who'd been a disappointment; Draco was the one…

            It seemed like a good place to start.

            _I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're in Azkaban, I'm sorry Potter told everyone, I'm sorry you're landed in this awkward circumstance._

Awkward. That's what his Father would have said, wasn't it?

            _I know I've disappointed you. I still haven't beaten Potter in Quidditch, and I made a mistake on my O.W.L.S._

            Draco's mouth twitched unpleasantly, and he shuddered a bit at the memory of the shattered wine glass. But that hadn't been his fault. Once again, it was Potter. He was so sick of hearing about "the famous Potter". And there, at a time when he needed his concentration above all, he had been forced to listen to yet another blithering idiot babble about the boy who lived like some fawning schoolgirl. The sheer force of his disgusted rage had caused him to do what no proper Malfoy ever did: lose control.

            For a while, it had been bearable. Potter's reputation was deteriorating; finally he wasn't being worshipped with such nauseating devotion by every idiotic, brainless follower in the school. But in a second, the bad public image had shifted, to Draco's horror, from Potter to such men as Lucius Malfoy. The public knew he was a death eater. They _knew_. The respectable image his Father had so strived to uphold was far beyond tarnished; it was now spoilt forever.

            _For what it's worth, I've tried._

Draco's eyes shifted from the letter to the piles of schoolbooks arranged in small mountains all round his bed. Between the crisp, new pages of each shining book were thousands of markers. They tarnished the perfection of the premium-quality books with their painstakingly scrawled labels, each highlighting those things that he had studied over and over.

            His Father had constantly harped upon his disappointing grades, and so Draco studied obsessively. No one besides his fellow Slytherins would have believed it; Draco was sure they all assumed his Father bribed the teachers. The very thought was ridiculous. Draco's Father was his highest, most relentless critic.

            _My grades are still not above Granger's, but I believe I may be gaining on her._

            That was a lie, he was in no way gaining on her, and burning anger rose up inside him at the thought of how effortlessly the mudblood rose above him in academics. It was absolutely humiliating to be beaten by her, of all people.

            _I will do better next year. I will study all year, and I promise you that you need not be disappointed in me much longer. By seventh year, I will be more than prepared to achieve Os on all my N.E.W.T.S._

Yes. That's what he would do. That's what he must do. Then, he wouldn't be such a disappointment. Then, he wouldn't be an embarrassing blemish upon the Malfoy name. Any tarnish his Father's unfortunate discovery as a Death Eater had brought about would be glossed over by him, the youngest Malfoy, the most disappointing in the family for generations. The weakest son, the failure in Quidditch, the boy who was beaten by a mudblood female, would be the one to rise up and make his family proud.

            One big failure. That was all Draco was these days. He knew his parents saw it. He had done nothing but sought after their attention, searching endlessly for something to impress Lucius and Narcissa, but all he had done was fail time after humiliating time. He dreaded going home. As long as he was at Hogwarts, there was still time to do better; time to fix everything. But at home there were no more chances. He was under their disappointed stares day and night, and it burned at him.

            _I can promise you that much. There's no cause for you to worry about what the Daily Prophet has reported. That paper is only going downhill in any case, you've been saying so for years._

His hands were shaking so badly now that it made the entire bed quiver, and before he knew it the bottle of ink had tipped over, spilling the black liquid all over his bed and splashing it onto his robes. He immediately lurched off the bed and swore loudly, fumbling to get his wand and avoid the seeping black stain that was flowing all over his sheets.

            With one more curse for good measure and an angry, snarling scowl at his own stupidity, he raised his wand. He opened his mouth to say the spell, eyes flashing, and…

            Froze.

            He couldn't remember the spell.

            Draco's eyes widened in horror; he must have done it a thousand times, it was the simplest spell, in just a minute it would come flooding back to him. But it didn't. His mind was drawing a complete blank. What was it? What was it? What was he supposed to say? Come on, Draco, you've done this a thousand times, you _know_ the stupid cleaning spell.

            Draco began fumbling through his pile of books, knocking down the neat stacks and sending books tumbling everywhere on the floor in a flurried heap. His hands rested on deep purple leather and he tore his Charms book from the pile. His face was burning with embarrassment, although there was no one around to see his error. He hadn't marked the page; it had been such an easy spell. After rifling through the pages he finally came to it. With shaking hands, he mumbled the spell and the mess was gone.

            He was stupid. Agonizingly, hopelessly, disgustingly **stupid**. He threw the book aside, collapsing heavily back on the bed. His pale eyes stared hopelessly up at the stone ceiling high above him, looking for an answer there. After several painful moments, he found a response between the cracks in the mortar and the clinging cobwebs. In the back of his mind somewhere, Draco decided to hang all the artistic language, the choosing the right way to word this and how best to deal with that and just to write what he felt.__

_            I'm not quite sure I understand. Of course I do not mean to question your decisions, and I agree with you to the utmost that mudbloods are disgusting. The Dark Lord has the right idea, trying to get rid of them. The fact that they are seen as being on the same level as purebloods such as us is horrible._

            But is it really worth it? No one understands what we're doing, no one agrees with us father, and the old ways are outdated.  All of the other Death Eaters have been sent to Azkaban. They hate us, Father. They all are calling you a monster. Really, is it possible that the forbidden curses are really as horrible as all the professors have said?

_            I know. I used to not question it. I'm afraid Hogwarts may have made me think in a way not befitting a Malfoy. I am trying, now, to imagine a life without all of this violence. I am trying to imagine what it must be like to be – well, let's say a Weasley. You've told me all along they were horrible, a filthy disgrace, I see their tattered robes and their second hand books, but I have also seen them in their parent's company. I cannot imagine my Mother ruffling my hair. I cannot see myself smiling or laughing aloud in your presence._

_            Why? Why do you hate me? Do you not understand what it's like, to feel that your parents view you as a bug on the bottom of their shoes? I would rather be dead. But I know that if I was, you would hate me all the more. The only thing driving me on is the hope that, some day, I will make you proud. Nothing makes me happy. I don't know what happiness is any more. I feel only shame._

_            Most of the time, I agree with you. But there are times when I begin to doubt. Perhaps that is what has made me such a disappointment in your eyes. When you were my age, did you ever wonder? Were you curious at times how the rest of the world lived? Have you ever loved me in the way I have heard parents love their children?_

            Tell me. Tell me you've doubted. Tell me I am not losing my mind, tell me it's normal to be a little unsure of how we lived. It seems to me you've never been unsure. My greatest hope is to be as you are. I want you to accept me. Sometimes, the coldness of our lives begins to give me frostbite.

_            It is always under my skin. I am suffocating. I feel that I am dying, the closer I come to being the person I know I should be the more I feel any humanity in me crumbling away. I must be hallucinating. Some fault in my mind has made me get everything confused. But you are my Father. Isn't it right that a Father loves his son?_

_            What do I have to do to get you to love me? I'd do anything to please you. If, just once, I could see pride in your eyes. Should I slit my wrists? Would that make you pay attention? Would you be happier if I were dead? Would it be less trouble for you, to see your son in a grave? Would you care at all if you got a Hogwarts letter, saying there's been a dreadful accident, and we're sorry, but somehow your little son is dead? Would you even shed a tear for me? I can't picture you crying, ever. I can't even picture you crying about my own death! That's not natural, is it? I didn't do anything to deserve that, did I?_

_            I know I'm not what you wanted, but Father I have tried everything. What will it take? Do I have to become you? Is it my humanity? Because I'd gladly give it up, if I thought it would make a difference. I'd give my head to you on a platter if I thought it would make you proud. I don't know what else to say._

_            Your son,_

_            Draco Malfoy_

How had this letter gone so off course? Draco thought for a minute, and it occurred to him that, much to his own surprise, it didn't bother him. The letter, although in no way articulate or cleverly stated, poured out onto its surface exactly what he'd wanted it to say. Everything he'd been feeling, all the things that had been mulling up inside him like a great, sickening weight for longer than he could remember, were all clearly stated. It was a perfect expression of his deepest emotions, every fear and every hurt he ever felt. Well, that alone decided it.

With another wave of his wand and a softly spoken spell, the paper burst suddenly into flames. They did not spread to his bed, but quickly consumed the parchment. He watched the flames dance, watched the expensive parchment blacken and curl in upon itself with bated breath, completely absorbed for a few moments in quiet reverie. When it was finished, he swept the ashes into hands that shook no longer, and dumped them into a nearby trashcan. He could have just as easily charmed them away, but for some reason he did not.

Draco took a deep breath, then stood. His head tilted back up to its normal cocky angle, his shoulders squared, and with an arrogant swirl of his robes, he swept out of the room. His step possessed all the swagger and pompous self-assurance that was Draco. He did not give the pile of ashes a backward glance as he left the room.


End file.
